


little flaws

by propinquitous



Series: i went to see his heart [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Gentle Kissing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Marriage Contracts, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Past Child Abuse, Unresolved Romantic Tension, and their various and sundry loopholes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-28 15:24:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18759151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous
Summary: Eliot seeks reassurance before he's left alone in Fillory for the first time."So when you say youcan'thave sex with anyone else, what exactly does that mean?" Quentin asked."The terms are decidedly vague.""I guess there are really only two options - the contract spell either prevents you from acting against it in the first place or it punishes you if you do."





	little flaws

**Author's Note:**

> takes place somewhere in 2.01. i know there's some suggestion that eliot is completely unable to act contrary to his marriage - at least in his real body - but we do what we must for tropes and fulfilling our weirdly specific emotional needs.
> 
>  **please jump to end notes for full content warnings/places to skip if need be.** nothing is graphic and it's all pretty brief, but please be safe and take care of yourself!

"So when you say you _can't_ have sex with anyone else, what exactly does that mean?" Quentin asked.

"The terms are decidedly vague."

"I guess there are really only two options - the contract either prevents you from acting against it in the first place or it punishes you if you do."

"Mm, don't like either of those options," Eliot said.

"Do you think the enchantment, like, does it read intent or just the kind of touch?" Quentin asked. He looked at Eliot as he said it, maintaining eye contact in the way he did that made Eliot feel equal parts humbled and unnerved. It was always so strange to him that someone as high strung and anxious as Quentin could manage it, even insisted on it.

Eliot cocked his head and smiled, close-mouthed. "Unclear."

"I mean, we just hugged, so. There are limits, it won't just explode you for touching someone, or keep you from touching them in the first place."

"But what was your _intent_ , hm?" Eliot said, leaning back against Quentin's shoulder.

Quentin shrugged. "You asked for a hug, and you're my friend and you're scared. I would be, I mean, I would probably be completely freaking out right now and would need, I dunno. A hug like they give cows with that machine before they slaughter them."

"Really not your best metaphor, Q," Eliot said and let more of his weight settle against Quentin.

"Well," Quentin started to say and gestured limply with one hand. Eliot sighed, patted Quentin's knee and watched as he picked at a hangnail on his pinky.

"It's an interesting question, though," Eliot said at last. He let a lilt slip into his voice.

"You're being devious, aren't you," Quentin said with such a schoolmistress air that Eliot almost laughed.

"Oh, Q. C'mon, aren't you curious?"

"Well, yeah, but I don't want you to explode or whatever," Quentin said.

In truth, Eliot still felt himself coming down off of the self-destructive streak that had landed him here, unable to ever touch or kiss or fuck anyone but Fen ever again, unable to be himself but set on some higher path. He knew he should be more careful but couldn't ignore the playful tug of the idea and, much worse, he couldn't forget the way that Quentin had looked at him - the lines around his eyes when he smiled and the way he had asked if Eliot was more brave or merciful, as if those were words Eliot would ever ascribe to himself. The idea of exploding wasn't the most unappealing option he'd been given in the last few weeks.

Eliot pressed on, "I'm sure there's a warning built in, I doubt they wanted High Kings to combust if someone grabbed their ass." He stood and brushed the wrinkles out of his trousers. "I'm just saying, it can't be that bad."

Quentin looked up at him and frowned.

"C'mon, just try it with me tonight, before you go," Eliot said, extending a hand to help Quentin up.

"Try what?"

"Just touching."

"I think, I don't know. With all the stuff with Alice," Quentin's voice cracked and he paused, took a deep breath and huffed it out. "I just, I don't wanna push it. Also. You could literally explode."

"Well, death comes for us all," Eliot said, "I'll see you in my quarters after supper, young squire." 

"I'm a king, too, you know!" Quentin called after him as he strode out the door.

-

The room was cool, both suns having set hours ago. Quentin sat on the big bed in the center of the room, examining his nails.

"Oh, don't look so glum." Eliot said as he closed the door behind him.

"Eliot," Quentin sighed.

"Quentin," Eliot parroted. But the way Quentin looked at him, his whole face somehow shaped into a frown without even moving his mouth, stopped him, caught his rough edge off guard and smoothed it. He inhaled through his nose and closed his eyes before speaking.

"Look, if you really don't want to do this, it's okay. I just. I don't know when I'm going to see to you again and I'm scared as fuck about it. And," he stopped and spread his arms, palms open to Quentin. "I thought this would be fun. And I want to, you know, _hang out_ with you," he finished lamely.

Eliot knew that what had happened between them and Margo hadn't been anything but a drunken, emotional lark, but he could admit to himself that he missed Quentin whenever they weren't together. When they were, he found himself taking comfort in all of his little gestures - the way he used his whole hand to tuck his hair back, how he spread his fingers wide when he touched his chest to describe a feeling. It had never been clear to him what the boundaries of their friendship were, or the limits of his own feelings; while he knew himself well enough to know that he was looking for excuses to push those boundaries, he was also stubborn enough to couch it, to hem himself in before he reached a conclusion that scared him.

They were friends, Eliot reminded himself, and this was normal. You're supposed to be comfortable around your friends.

Quentin kept his level stare and Eliot held it until he saw his eyes soften, his mouth relax. He felt something go liquid inside him when Quentin finally shrugged and smiled.

"Okay," Quentin said, "okay. You wanna sit?" and patted the bed.

Eliot nodded. "Thank you," he said as he sat down.

"So how does this work?" Quentin said after a long moment. Eliot opened his mouth to speak but found his throat bizarrely tight. Something at the back of his brain lit up again, trying to point out that he was getting at something with Q, that he was being _weird_ and loading his actions and if he would just talk for once, use his words, express his goddamn feelings, even to himself -

"You okay?"

"Yep, fine, great."

"So, how do we do this?" Quentin said. "Personally, I thought we should sit facing each other, and maybe just start with fingers? Light as a feather, stiff as a board?"

Eliot smirked.

"Okay, listen," Quentin said until Eliot cleared his throat.

"Yeah, okay, you're right," Eliot said. He settled back and crossed his legs, extending his index fingers over his knees.

"Good?"

"I mean, this was your idea," Quentin said. "What do you think?"

"I think you should touch my finger and think debauched thoughts," Eliot said as his eyes fluttered closed.

Then Quentin's finger was touching his, a light sensation.

"What are you thinking?"

"Not much," he said. He laughed and Eliot could feel it reverberate through his fingertips.

"C'mon, Q, debauched thoughts. About me, specifically."

Quentin closed his eyes and Eliot wondered what he imagined. He almost asked if Quentin was thinking about what they had done together, if the memory of sucking Eliot's dick was as intrusive for Quentin as it was for him, but thought better of it. He felt a flush crawl up his chest and then a tingle began in his finger where he touched Quentin that crescendoed into a quick zap, like they'd touched an exposed wire.

"Ow, fuck," Quentin said and pulled away. 

"Okay, so that gives us some idea of how this works. What were you thinking about?"

Quentin smiled. "Model airplanes. That was all you, El."

Eliot narrowed his eyes. "I see," he said and didn't reveal his thoughts that had led to the trigger.

"Oh come on, El, I'm just giving you a hard time."

"Mm," Eliot said and raised his eyebrows.

"Mhm, you wish. I wonder though," he said and Eliot perked up before he could stop himself. "I wonder how far the parameters expand."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, obviously thinking, you know, horny thoughts about the other person - don't lie, El, I know exactly what you were thinking - triggers the failsafe, but I wonder if other kinds of intimate thoughts do, too. Like, if you touch me and tell me your deepest regret, will it trip?"

"Only one way to find out. Hold my hand, Q." Eliot said with more insistence than he'd intended. He reached for Quentin, palm out, waiting.

"Okay, but let's start small. And maybe we should actually talk since neither of us can read minds."

Eliot nodded. "Okay. I'll start. Who was your first crush?" He bit at his lip and tried far too late to seem casual instead of eager.

Quentin shook his head. "Weak, Waugh. It's Julia, and you knew that already."

"Yes, but I haven't held your hands to test an intimacy ward while you thought about her."

Quentin briefly took one hand back to tuck his hair behind his ear. "Fair point," he said as he settled back in Eliot's palm. His hands were warmer now, after the few minutes of touching.

"Are you thinking about her?"

"Yep, loud and clear."

"Do you feel anything?"

"Not particularly."

After that, they talked, their hands growing a little clammy against one another. Eliot told Quentin about his first hook-up behind a horse trailer at an ag show; how it was bad but he'd loved it, then, the thrill of the secret and the sense that he was starting down a path that would redefine him, give him a way out. He told him about the relief he felt when he got into Brakebills, when he'd passed the trials and solidified his place in his class, even if it barely mattered now. He kept his tone aloof, let his feelings and little secrets tumble out carelessly as he always had, but hoped that Quentin could see that he was trying to open a door from them, trying to give him room to step through and know him. If this might be the last time they saw each other for years, maybe ever, Eliot intended to make it worth it.

Quentin, for his part, stayed superficial. Eliot had hoped he would give him fun details, just the tiniest bit of gossip if not world shattering truths, but Quentin stuck to the mundane, the most mild transgressions - cribbing booze from his dad, knowing about some kids stealing copies of a final in undergrad but not saying anything. Eliot knew he was treading fragile ground, that it might be too early in winter to walk out on the ice, but there was a nagging at the back of his mind, an impish desire to _push_ , to have his vulnerability reciprocated.

"I think we should start getting naked," Eliot said after telling Quentin about a particularly regrettable night in Ibiza.

"Eliot, c'mon. This isn't first year."

"Quentin, it's necessary to test the extent of the contract. How am I supposed to live in Fillory forever without loopholes?" Eliot shimmied a little and gave his best pleading eyes, almost batting his eyelashes before he caught himself.

Quentin smiled and shook his hair out of his face. Eliot felt a burst of triumph, warm and tingling over his limbs. "Fine," Quentin laughed, "you know what, fine. Shirts off?"

"Please let's."

Eliot shed his vest and deftly unbuttoned his shirt, leaving him the opportunity to watch Quentin struggle and get his nose caught at his collar. He wasn't sure how Q ever managed to get dressed but it still made him feel hot all over, watching him fumble and struggle his way through until Eliot could see all of the pale skin of his chest. He loved this Quentin, awkward and soft and somehow totally unselfconscious as he stripped.

"Ready?" Eliot said when Q finally settled.

Quentin nodded and shifted so that his arms slid against Eliot's until they reached one another's elbows, and their knees jostled and overlapped. From the new closeness he could smell the worn cotton scent of him, sense barest hint of aftershave or maybe cologne - no, Quentin wouldn't wear cologne, Eliot knew.

He gripped Quentin's elbows, idly stroking the soft skin at the crook with his thumb as he tried to think of what to say. He felt raised skin underneath his fingertip and pulled Quentin a little closer, peering down.

"What are these?" Eliot asked. Quentin shrugged one shoulder, almost imperceptible, and Eliot felt him start to pull away. He briefly considered holding onto him until Quentin stopped, leaving his elbows balanced against Eliot's palms. 

"Q," he said after a moment, "it's okay, you don't have to tell me."

"No, it's. It's fine," Quentin said and shook his head. "They're just cuts, I mean, I cut myself." He visibly swallowed and Eliot stayed silent, sensing that there was more to come. "From middle school, early high school? I didn't try to kill myself," Quentin insisted. Eliot ran his thumbnail over the edge of one of the wider scars, still quiet for another moment.

"What were you trying to do?"

Quentin shrugged. "Same as you with booze and drugs and sex, probably." He looked into Eliot's eyes. "Just wanted to take the edge off."

Eliot looked at Q's face and felt something brittle crack. He thought he hurt for Quentin in a way that he had never hurt for anyone before, a deep ache somewhere below his sternum that made him want to reach inside his chest to soothe it, then reach back out and hold Quentin close, wrap him up. He'd felt protective of Quentin since they'd met, wanted him to feel welcomed and safe, but this was something else; he couldn't protect Quentin from himself. Instead he could feel an empathy, something in his body aching and crying out, trying to find the place in Quentin where he might fit, where all their broken parts might notch together. He kept watching as Quentin's hands tensed and relaxed again and didn't know what to say.

"And this?" Quentin asked, breaking the silence. He ran his finger over the surface of a round, raised scar on Eliot's forearm. The touch gave Eliot goosebumps and made him shiver.

"Just a biopsy. Moles, I mean. No skin cancer here," he laughed briefly and drummed his fingertips along Quentin's elbow.

Quentin said nothing. He wouldn't look at Eliot either, kept his gaze downcast and focused somewhere on the quilt like he was counting stitches. Eliot squeezed his elbow where he held it.

"Hey," Eliot said gently.

"I'm sorry if that was, I don't know, weird," Quentin said, abrupt and short, "Sorry." Eliot could feel him withdrawing with each word, saw him folding up on himself and closing Eliot off in the way his brow knitted and he chewed on his lower lip.

"Q, no, don't say that, don't do that," he said. He found himself briefly frozen, unable to think of anything worth saying, until he finally gave up and pulled Quentin in. In their position, cross-legged and knees touching, it was difficult to get close enough, but Eliot did his best to hold him against his chest. "It's okay," he repeated, again and again, because he couldn't think of anything else to say except _I've hurt myself, too, so badly, you don't know the half of it_ and that seemed wrong, selfish somehow. He could feel Quentin's tears against his bare skin and his heart almost stopped at the feeling; he cupped the back of Quentin's neck and whispered until his words weren't words anymore, until Quentin sat back and wiped at one eye.

"Thanks," he said, laughed a little wetly. "So I guess you're allowed shirtless hugs as long as they're not overtly sexual or whatever."

Eliot nodded. "Good to know," he said. His usual reaction would have been to tease, deflect, but he braced himself against the impulse. Instead he reached to take Quentin's hand and was caught off guard when he raised it to his lips and kissed his knuckle.

When all he felt was the warmth of Q's lips, he smiled.

"Nothing there either, huh?" he said. Quentin kept his lips pressed still to his hand for a moment longer, then moved Eliot's hand to cradle his cheek. It made his stomach jolt.

"Let's switch it up a little bit. Turn around?" Quentin said and released his hand.

The mood in the room had shifted, the energy between them gone from playful to something more tense, a little fraught. Eliot could hear it in Quentin's voice, could see it in the straight line of his usually slumped shoulders. He could feel it in his own belly, an uncertain but not entirely unpleasant flutter. So he did as Quentin asked, and looked down at his palms to wait.

Quentin's hands were on his arms then, tracing the planes of his triceps. He felt goosebumps spread over his shoulders and they intensified as Quentin's hands moved up to ghost over his shoulders, the light touches across his skin almost unbearable in their sweetness.

Before he could help it, Eliot's mind drifted and he thought of kissing Q, of running his hands over his naked chest and how he moaned when Eliot nipped at his jaw. He remembered the way Quentin had tensed when he came, the way he'd curled in on Eliot like he couldn't stand it, like no one had ever made him feel the way Eliot had.

Suddenly, he felt the charge building under his skin and Quentin's hands were gone.

"El," Quentin said, a warning.

"Shit, I know, I know, I'm sorry it just - it feels good."

When Quentin didn't say anything, Eliot turned around to face him.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, unexpectedly embarrassed.

"It's okay I just, you know, I don't want you to get hurt," Quentin said.

"I won't, I promise, I'll stop you."

Quentin nodded, just a small, almost imperceptible tilt of his chin. "Okay," he said, and brought his hands back to Eliot's shoulders, gently turning him back around, "okay."

In another scenario Eliot would have been proud of his self-restraint, but here, now, with Quentin. It was almost too much. He took a deep breath and tried to focus on the feeling of his lungs expanding, visualized his diaphragm pulling downward, anything to keep his mind from wandering back to the way Quentin felt in his hands.

"Did someone steal your kidney?" Quentin asked. His voice was purposefully light, a little strained with the effort of sounding casual.

It took Eliot a minute to register which scar Quentin saw, that he gently ran his finger over. It was a thin line that ran under his right arm and down across the back of his ribs. His skin prickled.

"My dad," he said as Quentin's hand stilled. "A belt," he clarified, "it's fine."

The air hung heavy with silence just long enough for Eliot to regret speaking.

"El, it's really not," Quentin said and squeezed Eliot's shoulders.

"Can we just. Not have this conversation. Please."

"Are we testing the boundaries of the contract or not?" Quentin said, his voice fading into a whisper. He kept up his work on Eliot's shoulders, alternating between gentle kneading and skittering touches, and Eliot was silent. He had no argument.

Eliot knew, then, that even his vulnerability had been a kind of performance, designed to skirt around the worst of himself and his past. He'd learned it young, knew how to reveal just enough that no one asked questions, dug any deeper. It allowed him to feel loved without ever giving himself up, to participate without ever being present.

He knew where it came from, too, that it was a product of growing up queer in a small town, of constantly being on his guard, of always having to parse the smallest differences between someone who loved him and someone who might kill him and, sometimes, contending with those impulses in the same person. It was protective and remained so even when he did not need protecting anymore; it was a trick he'd been pulling off for years and one he was ashamed to have pulled on Quentin. But the problem was that it was reflexive, a behavior so consistently executed over the course of Eliot's life that he barely noticed it anymore.

He felt himself sinking under the weight of the shame as Quentin ran his lips over the back of his neck, not quite a kiss. He shivered and reached back to stroke Quentin's hair.

At least Quentin's reticence was real, Eliot thought, his fear honest. He was braver than Eliot was by long shot because despite the fact that his brain was in a constant standoff with itself, he didn't keep life at arm's length - he loved people fully, genuinely, even when he royally fucked it up. He deserved better than what Eliot had given him.

"You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want," Quentin said against his neck.

"I think I do," Eliot sighed.

"You don't owe me anything,"

"Oh, Q," he sighed, and started talking before he had the chance to think about it. "To be clear," he began, "it wasn't - it wasn't a constant thing. It was just a few times. Honestly I don't even remember it that well except that I was taller than him by then and I think that made him angry. It was like he realized he wasn't going to be able to fuck with me forever and wanted to show me," he ran a hand over his face and laughed, "wanted to show me who was boss one last time."

Eliot exhaled as Quentin pressed closer against his back, settling his legs on either side of Eliot, and lay his cheek against the expanse between his shoulder blades. His face was warm against the cool skin of his back.

"I'm sorry he did that to you," Quentin said into his skin.

Instead of speaking, Eliot pulled Quentin's arms around his middle and let himself go slack against him.

"How are you able to do this?" Eliot said, tilting his head back against Quentin's shoulder to look at him.

"You're my friend and you're scared," Quentin said and shrugged like that was all there was to it, like he hadn't managed to perform a kind of laying on of hands, of his mouth, without tripping the spell.

"And you didn't deserve what happened to you, not what your dad did or any of the other things you haven't told me," Quentin said.

Eliot laughed helplessly. "Then who does?"

"That's not how it works," Quentin said. He turned his head to kiss Eliot's neck, just once, but real. "You know that." Eliot felt a flood of weakness in his chest; he couldn't stand the surety with which Quentin had spoken, the simple earnestness like it should be obvious, like Eliot hadn't spent most of his life trying to justify his existence. It was too much and he squeezed Quentin's hands where they rested against his sides. There was no magic between them.

They sat like that for a while, Quentin wrapped around Eliot from behind, their heads resting on each other's shoulders. Neither of them spoke but Quentin traced his hands over Eliot's sides, taking Eliot's own fingers along with them, like he was teaching him how to count his ribs. 

"Let's lie down?" Eliot asked.

Quentin said nothing, only shifted backward enough to give Eliot the room he needed. They lay on their sides, facing each other from opposite sides of the bed. Eliot reached out and took Quentin's hand.

"Thank you," he said.

Quentin smiled and wound his fingers in between Eliot's. "Think you can manage this whole marriage thing?"

Eliot laughed. "About as well as I've ever managed anything. At least I know there are loopholes, even if I can't get laid." 

"Can we try one last thing?" Quentin asked after a beat.

"Sure."

"Come here?" he said and Eliot couldn't tell if it was a question or a command, but Quentin's voice was so soft that he couldn't resist. So he shifted toward him as Quentin pulled him in by the hand until their noses touched.

"Q?" Eliot said and then Quentin's lips were against his, soft and warm and giving. It was close mouthed and simple until Quentin guided Eliot's hand to the back of his neck, encouraging him to hold him like he knew exactly what Eliot wanted. Eliot sucked at Quentin's lower lip and thought he would let himself drown in him, if he could, that he would lose himself in the feeling of Quentin's hair tangled in his fingers, of Quentin's yielding mouth underneath his. It was overwhelming after a night of only the barest affection and Eliot moved until their bodies were pressed together, Quentin's hand on his hip.

The kiss broke with a crack of electricity, knocking both of them onto their backs. Eliot's lips felt burned, like he'd been too eager to eat a hot meal, and he couldn't help it, he started laughing. Quentin stared at him for a moment before his face broke into a smile.

"I hope that was worth it, El," Quentin said and laughed. Eliot turned to face him and he was perfect, Eliot thought, the softest expression of affection and joy evident in his dimples, the smoothed lines of his brow.

Eliot smiled and reached back across to take Q's hand, tangling their fingers together.

"Absolutely."

**Author's Note:**

> -About halfway through, Eliot touches Quentin's arms and discovers old self-harm scars. They talk about it and Q gets upset, insisting he didn't intend to ever kill himself, and Eliot comforts him. The conversation starts with "He gripped Quentin's elbows" and ends with "Eliot looked at Q's face and felt something brittle crack." They reference it a bit more after that but there are no further descriptions.
> 
> -About 3/4 in, Eliot admits that a scar on his back is from his dad hitting him with a belt. The section starts with Quentin asking "Did someone steal your kidney?" and is over with "Eliot exhaled as Quentin pressed closer". Eliot does not go into detail about what happened but he does talk about why he thinks it happened.


End file.
